


Sometimes

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 04:32:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12051393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Porthos and his baby meet Athos





	Sometimes

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: benefits woes (uk), money difficulties

Once Porthos has Sasha sleeping in the sling he drops into Nero for a coffee (literally drops, when he finds a comfortable arm chair; he’s knackered and he puts his coffee down and goes wobbly and just flops). He lets his eyes rest for a bit, sipping his coffee, his son a comforting weight but heavy today. A great big living breathing millstone on top of his chest restricting his breathing as he worries away. He sighs and sits up, pulling out his notebook, crossing off the chores he’s got done: signing on, bank, sorting housing benefit, therapist. As least he has one of those now who lets him bring Sasha, losing his last one when Sasha came ten months ago was a kick in the balls. This one’s a bit cheaper, too. It should be the first thing to go but if he wants to be functioning for Sasha he needs the therapist. Hadn’t that been a difficult thing to prove to job seekers. Now, with the psychologist's letter and the GP’s letter and the therapist he saw on the NHS saying there was no more treatment they could offer him, now they’re giving his money back. Hopefully they’ll back date it like Porthos’s job advisor helped him ask for. Porthos takes a fortifying sip of coffee and has a look at his list. 

 

He puts prices on everything and splits it into necessities now, necessities soon, and what he can do without. Things like milk and cheese are easy, they go at the very end of the list, along with coffee, cereal, any food that’s not a staple or twenty odd pee like the tesco value pasta. He looks guiltily at his coffee. He used to get it free Tuesdays with his mobile provider, but then he’d cancelled that. The job office said he had to have a phone he could be reached on so he’d organised with Flea that employers could leave him messages on her housephone, she never answered it or used it, it just came free with her internet package. He’d got into the habit of Nero, though, and job seekers had given him his bus fare back, he’d had the extra couple of quid. Coffee’s been on the bottom of his list for ages and he’s been craving it. He stops trying to justifying his purchase to himself and goes back to his list. Nappies he has got to get, and today; after Sasha deciding that no actually dairy is NOT for him, they most definitely need nappies. The medicine for him, too, that’s free with JSA thankfully. That’ll be easy. He could maybe get some nappies from some programme or other. Sasha makes an unhappy noise. 

 

“Shh, baby, I’m busy,” Porthos mutters, stroking his back and hoping… yep, he’s off again. “Good, that’s good.”

 

He presses an absent kiss to Sasha’s soft hair. He can use water for cleaning Sasha, that’s fine, he doesn’t need the fancy baby bath things. His mum used to use a little olive oil in his hair and Sasha’s is close enough he feels ok using that. He still has olive oil, Treville bought him a huge thing of it in the last bulk order he did for Porthos. That still burns a little, but it had been so much help and he’d been reeling when Sasha arrived. He should check the facebook group where he gave away Sasha’s nappies when he grew, maybe there’s something on there. Ok. Trousers go at the top, Porthos can’t walk around in board shorts for much longer, especially as they’re coming to bits. He needs something he can wear in interview, a nice pair of black jeans and maybe a cheapo ‘work’ pair from Primark. That can’t be above Sasha’s food though. The GP kindly put the Sudocreme on prescription, that was useful. Porthos crosses it off his list. He’ll have to go to the library to check facebook and things, he can’t do that today it’s shut and he won’t have a chance for a while. Nappies and baby food stay at the top. That and rent, and they need to pay the electrics and water bills. 

 

“Need hot water and electricity to keep you safe and well, baby. You’re expensive,” Porthos mutters, adding the bills on. 

 

He’s got an interview tomorrow so he needs a twenty for the teenager downstairs who watches Sasha and his bus fare which’ll be three eighty. That’s pretty necessary. Porthos carries on down his list, adding things as he thinks of them. When he’s done he does a bit of addition and totals up what he needs for right now, then looks at his bank balance, they wrote it down in the branch for him, all his accounts. He starts all over again, looking for places he can save, where he can get ready cash. He can do a couple of dog walks next week, him and Sasha have a couple of clients, that’ll help. It’ll be a pain to balance that with keeping in with JSA guidelines but they can work it out. Only a few hours, make sure they don’t earn too much. Porthos adds that in and scoots some things down the list to wait till that comes through. He’s still short by at least a hundred pounds. He leans back into his chair and covers his face to hide the tears. He was always a ready cry-er and right now he’s so dejected that he might cry even if he weren’t. He feels terrible for buying a coffee, which is ridiculous, it’s not like two quid would’ve made the difference in his 170 pound budgeting deficit. Flea might be able to lend him a bit, but he can’t bring himself to ask her. Not again. Not after she gave him two hundred she couldn’t really afford so he could cover the rent last month. 

 

If he just pays the bills and the rent he’ll be ok, he can cover that. He could maybe skip the electric, he hasn’t missed a payment yet they might be lenient, then he can afford the nappies and baby food and things Sasha needs. The fruit is important, definitely need fruit, and Sasha still needs formula too. And wipes. They badly need wipes. And they badly need a new bottle after Sasha threw both of his into the river in a fit of pique the other day, Porthos has been using a water bottle but it’s not really ok and Sasha hates it. The GP had had words about that with him. Porthos had angrily suggested the doc prescribe it and to his humiliation the doctor had gently offered to go with him to the pharmacy and buy him bottles. He’d told her he could swing it, but he wishes he had swallowed his pride now. If he doesn’t pay the electric and puts off buying anything for himself again, he can just about cover things. Porthos takes a deep, painful breath, his child so heavy asleep like that, then hears a gruff throat clear. He sits up, expecting to be asked if anyone’s sat opposite. Instead there’s a short, hairy bloke standing awkwardly in Porthos’s sightline. 

 

“Yeah?” Porthos asks, too tired to be politer than that. 

 

“I have been unutterably rude and presumptuous,” the man says, flushing a bright red all up his neck and over his cheeks. Porthos blinks at him. 

 

“Ok, well, I’m sure she’ll forgive you,” Porthos says, and the man bursts out laughing. 

 

“Good lord, no, I’m not approaching random strangers to- I was over there and you were crying and I came over to be awkward and see if you needed actual help or if you were just, you know,” the man says, waving a hand as if there were hundreds of perfectly reasonable and sensible excuses for crying in public, things where no aid of any sort is needed and the person weeping is happy and gay. Porthos raises an eyebrow. “Anyway. I saw your paper. That is a lot of… I went to Boots. I didn’t know nappies had numbers and shit, and there were thousands, so I stuck a gift card in there. I also got a gift card for here. Because I am a little hopeless really and can’t quite help myself.”

 

The man holds up four bulging bags and then sets them gently by Porthos’s feet and grimaces. Then he straightens and tries a smile. Then he gives up and shrugs. He does look a little helpless. 

 

“I…” Porthos starts, staring at the bags. “Maybe not the gift cards.”

 

“Oh. If you wish, of course, I won’t force you to eat your pride,” the man says, and it rings a bell with Porthos’s own thoughts so Porthos shuts his eyes and shakes his head. “Good!”

 

The man sounds so happy and when Porthos looks, he seems genuinely happy, too. Terribly pleased. Porthos feels miserably like some kind of charity project. He feels anger, but tamps that down. He’s gone that way too many times, he can’t yell at everyone who tries to help, that will get him nowhere. Even if accepting help has historically backfired on him too many times to count. He takes a deep breath and gives a little trust, has a little faith in humanity. 

 

“Thank you,” Porthos manages. 

 

“I could pay your bills, too, to be honest. If you want. I have rather a lot of money and not a lot to do with it. I’m not rich, by any stretch of the imagination, but I get by easily and don’t spend much, and they pay me too much,” the man says. 

 

“No, please. I can afford that. We’ll be fine. But, I will accept whatever you bought, and the gift cards. I… thank you,” Porthos says again. The man sits down looking relieved. 

 

“Good,” he says. “That’s excellent. I’m paying it forwards, really. I’ve had a lot of help along the way. My family weren’t poor growing up but my mother was sick and she used to take us places without thinking and not be able to pay, forget her purse and things. It would make her cry. People often paid our way, paid for our groceries. They were kind to her and us.”

 

“Oh,” Porthos says, a little of his discomfort lifting; paying it forwards is different and is not charity. He’s done it himself. “I will do the same, when I can. I don’t, I feel like defending myself, saying it’s just circumstances, but I guess that’s how it is for everyone. Sasha here was a bit of a surprise, though, and threw a great big … thing in the works of my plan.”

 

“Spanner?” the man suggests, eyes bright with amusement.

 

“I am knackered,” Porthos says, feeling it again as he glances at the bags and spots a changing mat (towels are rough on Sasha’s skin, with his rash) and bottles and food pouches that Sasha will eat, formula. It’s even the right formula, Porthos must have written it down at some point and this man bothered to remember it. Relief washes over him as he realises he can pay all the bills and eat and keep Sasha safe and well. “God, thank you. I’m Porthos and this is Sasha.”

 

“Athos. That’s me, I mean. I’m Athos,” Athos says, wincing and muttering ‘christ’. Porthos stifles laughter. “I was worried you’d not accept this.”

 

“I wouldn’t usually, I have a lot of pride. I’ve been learning to get out my own way, though, with Sasha. And I’ve turned down similar help too much, recently. There’s only so much kindness can be piled on before you give,” Porthos says, and finds a genuine smile somewhere. “I’ve been lucky this week. Last week everyone was fucking scrunched up buttocks to us, but this week people have been good.”

 

“Scrunched up-” Athos stops, laughing, covering his eyes as if to hide from his mirth. 

 

“Yep,” Porthos says, firmly. He grins, finding himself lighter and lighter like a balloon, buoyed up. He takes a drink of his coffee to calm himself a little. 

 

“I got you coffee too,” Athos says abruptly, pointing to the bags. “I saw the way you savoured the first few sips, you looked, um.”

 

He flushes bright red again, even his ears lighting up this time, under unkempt hair. Porthos thinks about commenting on it, but Sasha makes gripey noises and won’t settle again, this time. He starts squalling and wailing, demanding that Porthos let him out of his prison, squirming in the sling. Porthos undoes the straps and holds the baby against his chest, rubbing and patting his back and shushing him. Let out, though, Sasha’s happy once he’s calmed, he sits in the crook of Porthos’s knee, supporting by Porthos’s stomach and hands, and looks around wide eyed and fascinated by the new place. 

 

“They’re very lovely,” Athos says, staring at Sasha.”

 

“Isn’t he?” Porthos says, pleased, pressing kisses to Sasha’s warm head. “God, what a surprise when he popped out, though! Look at his green eyes, how weird is that? They were bright blue to begin, and then first time out in the sunshine, out comes a freckle on his knee!”

 

“His eyes are beautiful,” Athos says. 

 

Sasha starts the squirming thing he does when he wants to be up and about and Porthos sets him carefully down on the floor, watching as he holds the arm and chats loudly at Porthos, making long excited noises. He lets go and Athos lurches forward as if to catch him and Porthos looks on proudly as his tiny son wavers along for a few steps before bumping down. 

 

“He can  _ walk _ ?!” Athos says, astounded. 

 

“Yep,” Porthos says, beaming as Sasha drags himself up again and lurches to the table. Porthos jerks forward just in time to whisk his coffee out of the way, so Sasha goes for the plastic cup of water and knocks it merrily off the table, squealing with laughter and shouting joyfully. “Fuck.”

 

Sasha gets down onto his hands and knees and Porthos jumps up, scooping Sasha off the floor before he can get into the water which he is clearly after. Baby under one arm (legs kicking and still making pleased and loud noises) coffee in the other hand, Porthos stands, looking around for something to mop up, and Athos starts laughing, harder and harder, setting Sasha off too. Sasha sounds like he’s screaming when he laughs. Porthos wishes he could sink into the floor as everyone looks over, worried about the screaming baby. Porthos sets the coffee down and lifts Sasha up more securely and goes to get napkins. Athos finally gets it together and helps mop up, which is kind of him. 

 

“I should go,” Porthos says, sitting once more, jogging Sasha on his knee to keep him from running off. He finishes his coffee and stows his things in his bag, then looks at the bags Athos brought, humiliation curdling in his stomach with the coffee and making him feel sick.

 

“I will give you my phone number,” Athos says, getting to his feet. “You can pay me back for this by inviting me to get coffee with both of you again some time. I have enjoyed your company and I haven’t laughed like that in…”

 

Athos trails off and looks distant, then shakes himself and holds out his hand. Porthos, confused, straps Sasha to his chest (starting him off yelling even though he’s forward facing) then takes Athos’s hand to shake. Athos turns it and writes on the back of Porthos’s hand. Porthos nods and gathers the bags, following Athos up and out into the drizzle. Athos nods, then sticks his tongue out at Sasha and makes a silly fish face at him before stuffing his hands in his pockets and sauntering off. Porthos heads in the opposite direction for the bus, confused and buzzing and, mostly, relieved. 

 

He doesn’t get the job he interviews for, or the one after that. He and Sasha walk dogs, sign on, budget, and discover that Athos went way over the top with the gift cards - Porthos doesn’t have to worry about how he’ll pay for baby stuff that’s available in Boots for at least a month. He even uses some of the Nero card for lunch, once, to treat himself to good hot food. He invites Athos for coffee twice, with Flea’s phone, but he says no both times so Porthos leaves him be, he’s fulfilled the obligation of the generous act and now until he can pay Athos back he will remain silent. Also Flea was getting annoyed.

 

His fourth interview since meeting Athos (he seems to be lining time up that way at the moment, because ‘since meeting Athos’ is a much nicer thought that ‘since that week when I had no money and thought we were going to crash and burn’. His JSA has still not been back dated but payments are coming through, and housing benefit, and they’re just about scraping by now) goes terribly. He heads home to Sasha, and to pay Eddie for the care. 

 

Lovely tiny genderqueer Eddie who gets to be young and queer and already knows things at sixteen that Porthos is still getting to grips with. He’s not jealous at all. He is a little but he’s also truly, genuinely overjoyed that Eddie gets to be that. Zi’s a good kid. Porthos gives zir a little extra today even though the interview was shit. He’s up in Headington a few days later and stops by the Chaplaincy at Brookes uni to ask about an admin job they have going, exhausted by job searching but with a promise this’ll be the last today. He steps into a big light room and is shocked to see people, students sitting around knitting. He clears his throat and apologises but the chaplain beams at him and comes over to welcome him. 

 

“Um, I saw about the job,” Porthos says, trying to meet the man’s eyes. 

 

“Yes! Fantastic, I need people to be more interested,” the man says. “Right, come through to the office.”

 

“Yeah ok, I have a few questions,” Porthos says, shifting Sasha as he gets restless, following the guy through. He can’t for the life of him remember the man’s name. Something about herbs.

 

“You can let him out if you like, he should be safe enough to wreak havoc in here if we keep an eye, most electronics are out of reach. I’m Aramis,” the man says, and Porthos looks up, startled. 

 

“Good god, you are,” he blurts, stepping back. Sasha picks up on something and starts to grizzle, whacking his head back viciously against Porthos’s chin. Porthos just dodges the headbutt, used to it, and takes Aramis in. “Good god.”

 

“Porthos?” Aramis says, tentatively. 

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Shit. Sash, it’s fine, I’m fine. Second?”

 

“Yeah go ahead,” Aramis says. 

 

Porthos takes Sasha out of the sling and consciously calms himself, holding the baby against his shoulder and resting a hand against his little back, soothing and bouncing him a little. Sasha calms and rests there, sniffling. Porthos looks at Aramis again. He hasn’t seen the guy in about six years. 

 

“What on earth are you doing here, of all places, you absolute fucker?” Porthos says, remembering half way through that he’s supposed to be mad at Aramis. 

 

“Um,” Aramis says. “Working. I’m the chaplain. I’m a priest, at a church, I do… preaching.”

 

“Evidently,” Porthos says. “How do you get from being the most ridiculously over driven EMT with a rep for literally walking into burning buildings to… priest?”

 

“God came to me in a dream,” Aramis says, then laughs, sitting in a desk chair and gesturing Porthos into the other. Porthos sits. “Honestly? No idea. When I quit I meant to go travelling, but I just went home. Vincente’s family still does the Church every Sunday, grace before meals, prayers before bed thing and I hated it but my niece was acting out pushing against all the religious crap and I ended up sitting down with her and listening and, well, I ended up talking us both into finding our own kind of faith. She’s queer.”

 

“Congratulations,” Porthos says, sarcastically, Sasha wanting down. He lets him and Sasha stands leaning on Porthos’s leg, watching Aramis with distrust. Aramis looks a little pained; he still wants kids, then, Porthos thinks.

 

“I’m not saying it was my true calling or any shit, but I studied, I got a degree and did a Masters here in Oxford at the Other Uni, and when I was finally ordained, I did feel it. Like this was the right course, that I was going to help this way. And I have, I’ve done good work. Our church has always run a lot of charity projects, we do loads of good work with homeless and refugees especially and we’re super queer friendly,” Aramis says. “Ok, now how did the most sensible and- ok you were never that sensible. How did the world’s bravest fire fighter end up here?”

 

“Smoke inhalation and a bum knee, neither of which give me much trouble but both of which disqualify me. Then a love affair, then this little bugger,” Porthos says, nudging Sasha gently. Sasha looks up at him and makes his long squalling noise that sounds like distress but is mostly just excitement. Sasha finds his courage and plops down, then crawls joyfully over every inch of the office. 

 

“You could use a job, then,” Aramis says. 

 

“Like hell I’m working for you,” Porthos says, then deflates. “Well I would, to be honest. Bit desperate here.”

 

“I think that would be a disaster waiting to happen. I can refer you to Student Central though, they’re looking for an admin too,” Aramis says. “There are more hours, but they cover childcare. We’ve got a creche down in Cowley.”

 

“I don’t want to leave him,” Porthos says, lifting Sasha up as he passes. “He’s still tiny.”

 

“Ok, I’m going to refer you anyway and you should apply. I know there’s another candidate who they really like who wants to split the job,” Aramis says. “Just, don’t tell them I told you that.”

 

“Like I’d mention your name, it’d set them right against me,” Porthos says. Then he huffs out a laugh. “Bloody hell. Aramis. Wait, your name was not herby.”

 

“d’Herblay, you douche,” Aramis says. “And no, it wasn’t. It’s my father’s name. I was using my mum’s, as a kind of ef you, but I grew up.”

 

“Well done you,” Porthos says, strapping Sasha back into the sling.

 

“I’ll get them to send you an application pack if you leave me an email. And I’ll invite you to dinner, if you leave me a number,” Aramis says. 

 

“I don’t have a phone, just invite me now,” Porthos says. 

 

They find a good date and Porthos writes it carefully into his diary, glad he has a therapy session before then. He is glad to have found Aramis, but he’s still pissed that he just vanished, and he wants more words on that subject. He’ll wait until Aramis has got him an interview for this job, though. Mercenary is the way you gotta be in today’s job market. When he gets home there’s a note under the door from Flea telling him to get his butt up, so he and Sasha climb to the flat above. It’s good to flop down in Flea’s big armchair and know someone else will watch his terror of a son as he rips through the house knocking things over and getting into what he shouldn’t. 

 

“Your Athos called,” Flea says, ten minutes after he arrives, bringing Sasha in from getting in trouble in the kitchen. 

 

“He rang?” Porthos asks. 

 

“Yep. Seemed a bit miffed to get me,” Flea says. “I told him I was the sex worker you liked to hire to play the kinky receptionist game.”

 

“You didn’t,” Porthos says. 

 

“I did,” Flea says. “He didn’t believe me, just asked if you could call back.”

 

She throws her phone at him and he dials the number, watching as Flea tries to get Sasha to do some nice calm drawing. Sasha just eats the green crayon and throws the others joyfully at Flea before bursting into tears and then, once he calms down, manages to get out of his nappy and pee on Flea’s leg. Porthos watching it all smiling beatifically. 

 

“Porthos!” Flea cries, holding a giggling Sasha up. 

 

“He’s your nephew, you said you wanted to be auntie. Also, watch out, he’s probably-” Sasha gets a happy relaxed look on his face and starts peeing again, “-not quite done.”

 

~hello?~

 

“Hi Athos, it’s Porthos,” Porthos says, beaming. “My son is weeing on my best friend, this is a good day.”

 

“We’re going to shower,” Flea says, stomping off.

 

~Excellent, what pure joy. I am finally free of that ridiculous job, can I take up the offer of coffee?~

 

“Yep,” Porthos says, resting his head back and shutting his eyes, listening to his son be happy and joyful in the water, Flea’s voice calming too. “Any time.”

 

~Good. Tomorrow~

 

“Except tomorrow,” Porthos says, laughing. “Or the day after probably actually. Sasha’s got to get the next lot of shots and he’s going to be miserable.”

 

~Friday then~

 

“It is a deal. I will buy you all the coffee in the world,” Porthos says. 

 

Flea brings Sasha out bundled in a towel (and in a clean nappy) and Porthos holds out his arms. He tells Flea and Sasha about coffee, about Athos’s previous kindness and how maybe he can pay Athos back in some way. Flea suggests drawing him something but Porthos points out he hasn’t had time to do any drawing what with the Chaos of the Monarch Sasha, so Flea suggests flowers and they go out for a walk to find some good ones, but end up blackberrying. They make a pie for Athos instead. Sasha helps by sitting in the sink and throwing bubbles at them as they take it in turns cooking and making sure he doesn’t drown. Or leap out, which is honestly the more likely outcome. He keeps getting the tap on, over the little tiny sink bit, and laughing wildly, flailing and soaking whichever of them is closest. 

 

The next two days are kind of hellish, Sasha is sick and whiny and weeping and Porthos does his fair share of crying too, Flea’s busy and there’s no one else around to help so Porthos is stuck with looking after Sasha on his own, and he still has to do the day’s job search in order to get his money and he has to sign on, on Thursday, taking his sick child with him. Sasha screams and screams in the job center and everyone hates Porthos, and Porthos does a bit of crying too. His advisor just signs him off quickly and gives him a lollipop, she has them for the kids that come through here. By the time he gets to Nero on the Friday he’s sleep-deprived and fed up with his grizzly kid. 

 

“I was going to ask if things are better but it looks like they are not,” Athos says, coming up behind Porthos in the queue. 

 

“They are actually,” Porthos says, turning and finding a smile. “Just jabs. Sick baby, no sleep, signing on.”

 

“My treat, then.”

 

“I still have money from you,” Porthos admits, holding up the gift card. 

 

“That’s no way to spend money,” Athos says. Then he shrugs and accepts it. 

 

Porthos gets chocolate cake and a large cappuccino with extra chocolate and marshmallows. Athos side-eyes the marshmallows but Porthos couldn’t care less. Sasha’s sacked out in the buggy, which is perfect. They sit in the window in the sunshine and Athos steals a bite of cake. It feels almost like a date, but Porthos pushes that away. Making friends. That’s what he’s doing. Or saying thank you, he remembers, and gets out the tupperware of pie. 

 

“You made this?” Athos says, opening the lid a bit and sniffing it. “Oh my god.”

 

“Yeah, me and Sasha. Well, me and Flea really. The friend he peed on. Twice.”

 

“Thank you,” Athos says, looking up, damp eyed and ridiculously grateful. “I haven’t had homecooked apple pie in years.”

 

Porthos shrugs, and decides he’s going to bake all the cakes for Athos. 

***

 

Porthos has Sasha crashed out on his shoulder after crying for three hours because he wanted his socks off, but when Porthos took them off it was The Worst. He looks around his livingroom in bewilderment. Three months ago they were living in a shit and tiny council flat waiting for proper housing and now here they are with a little living room and bedroom, all for a few hours office work a week, and any extra he does he gets paid good. He hadn’t got the Brookes job but this is better. He can do some freelance writing and he has a room and he gets tax credits. They manage and the house is the best. It is also full of… Porthos isn’t even sure where most of it came from. No, he knows where, he just doesn’t know when. Athos. It’s all Athos. Stuffed toys, things that make noise, wooden bricks, a train, pull along toys. Porthos said no more money or anything and so Athos had decided that things for Sasha didn’t count. 

 

Porthos doesn’t dare put Sasha down (an hour ago Sasha fell asleep and Porthos set him down and he woke up and screamed) so he sits carefully on the sofa and slumps so Sasha can sleep on his chest and he can use the laptop one armed. He signs into hangouts and pokes at Athos until he stops lurking and pretending he’s not online. 

 

]my house is full of toys[

 

}hi porthos{

 

]no more toys[

 

Athos just sends photos of a very cute soft looking bunny and a book. Porthos sighs and goes to Facebook instead and sets up a ‘I have too many baby toys please come take some away’ group. He takes pictures from where he is (a bit grainy and odd angles but serviceable) and they’re quickly claimed. Porthos takes a screenshot and shows Athos and soon his phone is ringing. Porthos isn’t quite sure how Athos went from ‘the randomer in Nero who was kind’ to ‘someone I regularly get coffee with who has my number and fills my house with shite’ but he’s not against such things. 

 

“Hey,” Porthos whispers. “Sasha’s sleeping.”

 

“Did I wake him?” Athos asks, all worried and solicitous. Porthos huffs a laugh. 

 

“No. Thus ‘Sasha’s sleeping’ and the whispering,” Porthos whispers. Athos gives him a moment of stern silence. 

 

“You’re giving away my gifts,” Athos says, breaking first. 

 

“Yeah, I’m gonna show you a picture of my livingroom and you’ll see why,” Porthos says. “You’re welcome to give us stuff, I guess, if you must, but I’m not keeping it all. You’ll bury us in toys!”

 

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to go,” Athos sulks. “Ok. I can keep buying stuff though? Because I keep seeing the cutest things and I have very little impulse control. I’m sad and lonely and it makes me happy to see things and think of you guys.”

 

“Yes, mr pathetic, you can buy us things. I’m just gonna share around your largess. We should see if any of the refugee camps or school gift programmes or anything need stuff,” Porthos says, thinking of it and doing some googling.

 

He and Athos find a few good causes to give things away to and Athos seems pleased. He is definitely not stopping buying things though, Porthos is sure Athos has taken this as a green light to being way over the top. They hang up and Porthos wonders if going to find food would wake the baby. He decides it will and puts an old Batman cartoon on quietly to keep himself entertained while he plays at being a bed. Athos texts him an ongoing stream of increasingly sheepish photos of things he has apparently recently purchased for Sasha and Porthos tries not to laugh and jog him awake, especially when Athos sends a definitely sheepish selfie. Porthos stops watching Batman and stares at his phone, shocked. Oh dear. He rings Flea. 

 

“I like him,” Porthos says, without more ado. 

 

“Hi Porthos, nice to hear from you, how’s the house? Do you miss me being just upstairs? I’m good thanks for asking,” Flea says. “Do you mean the fancy guy?”

 

“Yes,” Porthos says, not bothering to tell her not to call Athos his ‘fancy man’ she has at least conceded man for ‘guy’ it’s a little better. “I did suggest you come here too, you could. There was another job and room going.”

 

“Yes but some of us need actual money,” Flea says. “I like my job, anyway. I’ll come visit you tomorrow I’ll bring coffee.”

 

“I’ll make cake. Athos,” Porthos says, insistent that she gets back on track. 

 

“Yes I know,” Flea says. 

 

“But, I decided not to introduce romantic partners to Sasha before knowing them AT LEAST a year! He can’t be getting attached, he’s just tiny, I’ve got to protect him Flea! I’ve seen the internet it says wait to introduce romantic people so babies have stability,” Porthos says. 

 

“It says ‘children’ not ‘babies’,” Flea says. “But it doesn’t really matter, you don’t have much choice. You can still limit Athos’s interaction with Sasha to just the coffee dates and not have him round the house. And sweetie, you do fine protecting Sasha. Relax, stop panicking. You’re not the worst dad in the whole entire universe and you’re not failing at everything.”

 

“Ok, I guess I’m not too terrible,” Porthos says, calming down a bit. “I did at least remember to get nappies before I am entirely out, this time. And we’re doing great with no dairy, there have been way less-”

 

“Porthos if you’re about to tell me about your child’s internal workings-”

 

“External, really.”

 

“-no more. I have heard too much already about the stuff that comes out of your baby,” Flea says. “I was going to call you, actually. I heard from Charon.”

 

“Oh,” Porthos says. 

 

“Yeah. He’s doing some building work, manual labour stuff, around here. For the next two months. He wants to meet me,” Flea says, sounding all uncertain and young. 

 

“Come over now,” Porthos says. “We’ll buy a cake and I have … well no I don’t have coffee but we can get some with the cake.”

 

“Alright. See you soon,” Flea says. 

 

“Toodles,” Porthos says and hangs up, looking down at Sasha. “Ok baby, you are gonna go in the sling and not shout at me. Let’s see how this goes.”

 

It goes terribly, of course, Sasha decides screaming and kicking is excellent idea and even bites Porthos’s chin, somehow. Porthos yowls and Sasha’s silent for a second then bends violently backwards screaming. Porthos wraps an arm around him to stop him falling out, tightens the straps with brute strength, and gets his wallet and keys to go out. He keeps his slippers on, he is not dealing with getting into shoes. He walks up and down outside the Co-op for ten minutes before Sasha’s murder screams turn into snuffling crying, then goes in to get coffee and the best cake he can find for under two quid. 

 

He spends the afternoon and evening with Flea talking to her while she cries and tries not to cry and Sasha cries and does nothing to try not to cry. It’s quite exhausting, but he doesn’t begrudge Flea the time or emotional heavy lifting, she’s done it enough for him in the last year and a bit. And Charon was such an arsehole to her. He was their best friend and he didn’t treat her right. When she’s left Porthos cries a bit, too, with Sasha in bed. It makes Sasha laugh which it WOULD and Porthos ends up laughing too. It might not have been the way he’d wanted things to go but he can’t regret his little Sasha, in the end. Also Flea agrees to have Sasha next time he meets Athos.

 

When Porthos walks into Nero alone Athos, sat near the window, looks up eagerly but his face falls when he sees no Sasha and actually checks behind Porthos as if he might have left Sasha to walk on his own. He’s pretty good at walking now, but really, he’s only ten months old. Porthos would have at LEAST held the door open for him. He giggles thinking about Sasha all self sufficient and grown up but still a baby and Athos smiles again, softer but still a good smile. Porthos points to the counter, checks to see if Athos needs a new coffee, then heads over to queue. It’s short today and soon he slumps into the chair opposite Athos, a big armchair. Athos always claims the best tables for them. 

 

“No Sasha?” Athos asks, before saying hello or anything. 

 

“I knew you only put up with me for my baby,” Porthos grumbles. “I thought it’d be nice to not have him, once in a while. Maybe more often. Maybe mostly.”

 

“Oh,” Athos says, disappointed. Then he lights up, sitting straight and beaming at Porthos. “Oh!”

 

“What?” Porthos asks. 

 

“Have you finally got over my helping you out? Are you going to ask me on a date? I’ve been flirting for ages and Porthos, I am terrible at flirting, it’s been a great effort,” Athos says. 

 

“Flirting?” Porthos says, confused. “You have been… flirting?”

 

“Yes. I talked to you in a cafe, and bought you coffee and remembered what you like, and I say nice things about your clothes, you have terrible clothes,” Athos says. 

 

“That’s … not flirting,” Porthos says, blinking. “Hey! I have nice clothes.”

 

Porthos looks down at his ratty jeans, trainers that were from Charon so are at least three years old and well worn, and his t-shirt that needs a wash and came from the charity shop already with a hole in the armpit. 

 

“Uh-huh,” Athos says. 

 

“I’m poor,” Porthos grumbles, pouting.

 

“Uh-huh,” Athos says again, which is fair enough; when it’s actually because of money Porthos is embarrassed by it and right now his clothes are mostly just… he should go shopping, or at least wear the things without holes in. 

 

“Sasha was fussy this morning,” Porthos says. 

 

“Yeah Porthos are you gonna get over me insulting you and answer the question any time soon?” Athos says, losing patience. 

 

“Well you DID insult me,” Porthos points out. “It was rude.”

 

“Yep,” Athos says. “I give up. Porthos will you date me?”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, waving that away. “OK. But I do not have terrible clothes.”

 

“Ok you are a fashionista and should start an instagram,” Athos says. 

 

“Oh,” Porthos says, liking the idea, wriggling in his chair. “I should! Would you help? We could go to the shops and try on the clothes and take pictures! I have great taste, people would love it.”

 

“No,” Athos says. 

 

“Charon used to do it,” Porthos says, then stops, deflating. Charon  _ had _ used to do it. Porthos had been worried about what he was wearing so Charon came shopping with him and took pics and made outragiously flirty and wonderfully flattering commentary and stuck them up on a closed Facebook group for trans people to compliment. 

 

“Porthos? I will if it’s really something you want to do, I was just teasing, I like the way you dress,” Athos says, leaning forward, obviously trying to get Porthos’s attention. He touches Porthos’s knee. “Yeah, I do, all this well worn half see through thing you’ve got going on, and all the soft things, all… clinging.”

 

Athos licks his lips, unconsciously, and Porthos beams at him, puffing his chest out a bit, preening just a tad. Athos smiles at him, looking at his eyes again, then straying down over his chest and stomach to where his hand’s resting. 

 

“Um,” Athos says, and Porthos laughs at how distracted he is. 

 

“That is very pleasing,” Porthos says, sitting back. “I would like to do a instagram thing, or a blog. Fashionsta with a baby I guess unless Flea feels like doing all the care taking for a bit.”

 

“I can see Sasha again, then?” Athos asks. 

 

“Oh,” Porthos says, a little crestfallen. “I dunno.”

 

His baby is only ten months old and he hardly KNOWS athos and he wants to DATE athos but romantic entanglements are messy and he doesn't want his baby to get attached or something and the internet says to wait to intro romantics to the kids but he also wants to actually see Athos and not just when Flea has a spare hour to babysit in her busy schedule and Athos already likes Sasha, and the photos would be a good opportunity to shop for Sasha too. Right. 

 

“I will throw caution to the wind,” Porthos decides, nodding. “Let’s do it.”

 

“Ok? Ok!” Athos says, smile cracking his face. He leans forward again and reaches out, then hesitates, then smiles even  _ wider _ and whispers ‘caution to the mother fucking  _ wind _ ’ and reaches out further to touch Porthos’s cheek and then cradles his face, beaming at him. 

 

“Can I kiss you please?” Porthos says, polite and nice like a good human being.

 

Athos replies in a not so polite way; he tightens his hold on Porthos’s chin and gently but firmly pulls him forward, pressing their lips together in a chaste soft kiss that’s at odds with how insistent his hold on Porthos is. Porthos sighs into it and smiles when Athos sits back looking pleased with himself. 

 

“That was nice,” Porthos says. 

 

“Yeah,” Athos says, looking all proud and smug. “I can do kissing.”

 

“Um, right,” Porthos says, and Athos gets all pinched and worried and twitches about a bit tugging at his sleeves. 

 

“Ah.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’m, well. I guess I should just say it. I’m asexual, I don’t really have sex. In fact I don’t have sex. Nothing ‘not really’ about it. And I haven’t in the past much gone in for kissing but that was nice. I wasn’t sure of most people,” Athos says, then looks down, face gloomy. “I suppose we’ll go back to just regulars, yeah? We don’t have to date. It’s ok. I know sex is important and communicative and people don’t like not doing it, I really do understand.”

 

“Just regulars?” Porthos says. “Firstly, I highly value friendship, there’s no ‘just’ about it. Secondly, there’s not much regular about you, Athos, we met when you were unbearably kind and so awkward that it felt like  _ I _ was doing  _ you _ a favour; thirdly…”

 

“Yeah,” Athos says, looking down at his hands. 

 

“You know that being that sad and pathetic is a bit unfair, right? I dunno what to do with this,” Porthos says. “I like sex. I mean, obviously. I have a baby from thinking with the wrong head.”

 

“Yeah,” Athos says. Then, frowning. “Ace people have babies too, sometimes. And sex, actually, though not me. Some do.”

 

“Yeah? Cool,” Porthos says. “I’m not saying let’s go, what was it? ‘Back to regulars’. I like that, by the way; the regulars. I’m just not sure I wanna be celebate my entire life.”

 

“Entire… life?” Athos says, looking up, surprised. 

 

“What, you think I’m gonna intro my kid and be ok with this if it was less than serious?” Porthos says, offended. 

 

“I keep putting my foot in my mouth,” Athos says. “I can actually do that you know, I’m flexible.”

 

Porthos closes his eyes and laughs softly, and decides, yes, to the absolute wind. 

 

“Yeah ok, I don’t give a crap, you’re adorable,” Porthos says. “Fine. Celibacy here I come.”

 

“Um, I hate to mention this at this juncture, it feels like I was testing you, but I’m actually okay with polyamory,” Athos says. “So you don’t actually have to … shut up stuff in the proverbial princess tower.”

 

“My dick in a tower,” Porthos says, laughing again, flopping over the arm of his chair. “You’re ridiculous!”

 

“Little bit. Sorry.”

 

“I’m not really up for poly right now, I’ve got enough connections in my life.”

 

“Let’s keep it as a ‘to talk about in the future’,” Athos says. “Not regulars?”

 

“I still quite like that,” Porthos says. “But, maybe the  _ ir _ regulars.”

 

“Yeah, okay. Boyfriend is stupid anyway. Porthos, will you be my irregular, and let me take you and your baby shopping for insta-fashioning?”

 

“How could I resist.”

 

Athos gives an awfully wobbly looking grin and reaches for Porthos’s hand, which he gives without hesitation. The man really is adorable. 

 

“He’s what?” Aramis asks, a week later, at dinner.

 

Porthos and Flea and Sasha have been going round every fortnight or so for Aramis to cook for them (for Porthos really but the others are moral support), and in the alternating time Porthos and Sasha go with Flea to see Charon for coffee. It works good, Porthos just has to be careful not to like Charon too much, to take Flea’s lead on it. 

 

“He’s ace,” Porthos says, lifting his chin, ready to defend Athos’s right to be whatever the hell he wants. 

 

“No sex… at all?” Aramis says, peering at Porthos in bewilderment. 

 

“Oh come off it,” Porthos says, relaxing a tad. “You’re not some hyper sexual thingy. You do fine with or without sex, I remember, you always talked too much about your sex life.”

 

“True,” Aramis says, shrugging. Sasha shrieks from somewhere deeper in the house, with Flea. Porthos waits but he soon is fine again. “You ok with that?”

 

“Yeah, I think so,” Porthos says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not like I was getting any with Sash about anyway.”

 

Aramis snorts at that and drops the subject. There’s still some tension between them and as the subject goes so does the conversation and an awkward silence falls. Porthos looks at the doorway hoping Flea brings Sasha back. She doesn’t, she’s purposefully keeping him away she wants Porthos to ‘talk’. He grouches a bit and shifts, looking down at his hands. 

 

“Just says it,” Aramis says, sounding tired. 

 

“What?”

 

“Whatever you’ve been holding back all these weeks,” Aramis snaps. “You’re like a, a, a…”

 

Aramis snaps with his thumb and fingers, like a clam or something, and then mimes an explosion. Porthos watches, then shrugs and looks at his hands again. He doesn’t even know, in words. He just feels angry and frustrated and betrayed. 

 

“You were supposed to be my best friend and you left me,” Porthos says. “Supposed to support me and shit. I needed you, when you left and I was hurt, you didn’t stick around to see if I was ok. And when I had to leave the fire-service, that was shit Aramis, I had no job and was still recovering and everything was shit. And then I was pregnant, I was fucking pregnant and what was I meant to do? I emailed you but- nothng. And Sash’s Dad left, and Sasha was born and you think a man on a maternity ward doesn’t get shit? Where  _ were _ you?”

 

“I had my own stuff, my own life to sort,” Aramis says. “I didn’t get an email.”

 

“You never reached out either,” Porthos says. “Could’ve at least stayed in touch.”

 

“I know you’re hurt but I told you I was leaving and that I needed to sort my head, that I’d be back.”

 

“Yeah well, you didn’t  _ come _ back,” Porthos says. “It was shit, okay? It was a shitty thing to do. It’s not like I’m not used to it. Charon left too, after being a complete arsehole and hurting Flea, and me too though I’ve never really considered that because of Flea. And my kid’s Dad, my own Dad, not like anyone sticks around anyway.”

 

Aramis gets up and Prothos thinks he’s gonna come over, he tenses up, but Aramis just leaves the room. Porthos looks up, completely astounded, but Aramis has honestly just, gone. Flea comes in with Sasha on her hip, questioning look on her face. Sasha yells in glee seeing Porthos and throws himself out of Flea’s hold. She catches him and brings him over, plopping him in Porthos’s lap, Sasha flops against Porthos’s chest with a happy sound and Porthos holds onto him. 

 

“Where did he go?” Flea asks, gently.

 

“Dunno, just left,” Porthos says. 

 

Flea rubs his shoulder in commiseration and when Aramis comes in as if he hasn’t just been an idiot she glares at him. Aramis holds up his hand in defense and comes over. 

 

“Why the evils?” Aramis asks, sitting the other side of Porthos with a shoe box. 

 

“Why’d you just leave?” Porthos asks. 

 

“Oh,” Aramis says, wincing. “Oops? Here.”

 

He sets a shoebox carefully on Porthos’s knees lifting the lid. Porthos looks at it. It’s all stuff from when they were friends: ticket stubs, photographs, programmes, takeout menus, post-it notes, a tattered paperback they swapped back and forth. Aramis pushes some things aside and lifts out a bundle of letters. 

 

“One for each birthday and Christmas,” Aramis says. “I sent them to your old address and they got sent back, the first year.”

 

“And email? Phone?” Porthos says, but as he says it he realises Aramis had his work email and his phone fell in the fire that did for his career. He wasn’t even meant to have had it on a scene but he’d been hoping for news from Aramis. “Oh.”

 

“Just, I thought of you, okay?” Aramis says. “I could have got your address, email, number, easily could have asked Treville. I’m sorry I didn’t, I had a lot going on at first and I didn’t want to talk to anyone, and then it had been a long time and I was ashamed. So I just wrote, in care I one day got an address I don’t know.”

 

“Yeah you’re an idiot,” Porthos says, smiling. Sasha gives a great snore and sets Aramis laughing. 

 

“How does such a tiny body make such noises?” Aramis asks, reaching over to stroke Sasha’s hair, and then Porthos’s cheek. 

 

“He’s amazing,” Porthos says, looking down at him. “I dunno where he came from, you know. He’s nothing like me at all, except his hair.”

 

“Is he like his father?” Aramis asks. “His other father.”

 

“No not really,” Porthos says. “Looks a bit like his Grandma I think, and somehow kinda like Treville but I think that’s mannerisms. He calls Trev granda. Or ‘na!’. Flea’s aunt, he calls her Foo, which is hilarious.”

 

“It’s only funny to you,” Flea says. “Aramis could be uncle.”

 

“Oh! No, no. I… no, I’m not looking…” Aramis looks terrified. 

 

“Yeah, you can be uncle,” Porthos says. “I’m still kinda pissed at you for being an idiot and not doing the right thing. Just cus it wasn’t entirely in your control doesn’t mean it wasn’t your responsibility to do better.”

 

“Alright,” Aramis says. 

 

“But you can be uncle Aramis,” Porthos says. “And you can come to dinner at ours.”

 

Aramis brightens at that and they go back to talking about less stressful things, Sasha hot and sleeping on Porthos as has become usual. Porthos loves the weight of him it’s very reassuring. A reminder of the great responsibility he has but also a reminder of the good stuff. Especially the trust between them. That’s real good.

 

“And Aramis was ok being uncle?” Athos asks, at the end of the week. 

 

They’re in Debenhams of all places, Athos has gone rooting through the department store, men’s and women’s sections, and has Porthos and about a hundred different garments in a big dressing room. Sasha’s pushed against the mirror chatting with the other baby there, Porthos is stood between the curtains in a pair of trousers that are too short, his mismatched bright stripe socks on show, a pair of braces over a dark crimson shirt with the collar a mess. Athos snaps a picture of him and Porthos blows a kiss, Athos takes another and Porthos laughs. 

 

“I dunno, he seems ok, but Aramis only ever seems ok. He’s had a hard time most of his life,” Porthos says. “I shouldn’t be so mad at him for bolting really, it was always going to happen and he can’t helps it and-”

 

“And he hurt you,” Athos says. 

 

“I always just end up talking to you about him and to him about you,” Porthos says, Sasha yells for him so he turns to watch his baby thwack his forehead against the mirror and laugh wildly. “No, darling, you’ll hurt yourself you weirdo.”

 

He scoops Sasha up and shuts the curtains to change. Athos calls for him to try a grey shirt without the braces but with the same trousers (‘and tuck it in this time scrappy!’). Sasha helps with the buttons, trying to wriggle himself inside the shirt too and giggling. Porthos manages to get some of the buttons over them and Sasha laughs gleefully as they open the curtains with a flare. 

 

“Gonna need a bigger size,” Porthos says, perplexed. “Can’t seem to do the buttons. I’ve lost my baby, too, have you seen him?”

 

Sasha understands enough to find it hysterically funny and Porthos beams over his bouncing curls at Athos takes an indulgent picture and actually goes to get bigger sizes. They take some pictures with Sasha buttoned into Porthos’s shirt, with the braces. Athos takes good pictures, all bright colours, managing the shitty lighting like a pro. Porthos wonders about that, remembers Athos saying he was free of a job, wonders about that too, then asks. 

 

“Ah, maybe a better conversation for coffee,” Athos says. “I’ve done photography though, yep.”

 

“Awesome,” Porthos says, excited. 

 

Sasha’s bored so they head out to the park instead, where Athos gets stuck pushing the swing and chasing Sasha while Porthos sits comfortably on a bench and takes photographs. Athos eventually realises Porthos is just being an arse and comes to drop down beside him, Sasha on his heels coming to rest his head on Porthos’s knees. He falls asleep like that which makes Athos laugh. 

 

“That was good,” Porthos says. “I like meeting you out for now, is that ok?”

 

“Yes,” Athos says. 

 

They wander back to the bus stop hand in hand, Sasha asleep in the sling.

Couple of weeks later, they’re firmly dating, and Porthos likes it. He’s sat at one end of Athos’s sofa, one leg up, resting himself against his knee, Athos is at the other end curled up like a small child, head resting on the arm of the sofa. Treville’s back from France for a bit and he’s got Sasha for two nights, he’d been so excited to see Sasha he’d cried and Sasha had been incredibly shy for about fifteen minutes then he’d been clinging to Treville and yelling a joyful stream of ‘nananananana!’. Porthos is going back to them tomorrow but for tonight, he is at Athos’s house, eating Athos’s popcorn, watching Athos’s DS9 DVDs on Athos’s swanky TV.

 

“I like this episode, I like Garak,” Athos says, yawning. “And the blue guy is cool. I like the Cardassian names, too; Empok Nor, Terok Nor.”

 

Athos pops the ‘p’ and rounds out the ‘r’s and makes the ‘k’ sound like a gunshot. Porthos supposes if you say it like it might be fun. Porthos gives in and admits to himself that he really can’t see a thing; he knows the episode, he loves DS9, but he wants to see. He gets up. Athos watches him across the room to his bag by the door and Porthos feels horribly self conscious getting his glasses out. When Athos sees the case, though, he looks back at the screen, uninterested in Porthos. Porthos relaxes and puts his glasses on, heading back to the sofa and sprawling. He realises that Athos is watching him again, staring, and looks over eyebrows raised. Athos is flushing. Porthos grins and wriggles his eyebrows, nudges his glasses with his thumb, and poses. 

 

“You like?” Porthos asks, amused when Athos’s flush gets darker. 

 

“When did you start wearing glasses?” Athos says, strangled. “And why do I care so much?”

 

Porthos laughs, tipping his head back but still looking at Athos, pulling up his knees and curling himself into the sofa. Athos glares at him. 

 

“I’ve worn them since I was twelve,” Porthos says, still laughing. 

 

“I don’t want to have sex with you even in glasses!” Athos suddenly exclaims, higher pitched, sitting up and pulling his jumper down over his hands, knees tight together. 

 

“Oh, Athos, you silly billy,” Porthos says, too amused and fond to be terribly serious. “I’m not going to ravage you, calm down. I’m not gonna take every appreciative comment or reaction as an invitation to sex. I enjoy appreciation too much to scupper my chances of getting more of it like that.”

 

“Is that the only reason why?”

 

“Are you asking if I am sexually attracted to you? Yep. Wildly so. But you know what’s a real turn off for me? You don’t want it. That kinda doesn’t rev my engine. Stalls, in fact, like a first time driver trying to use the clutch.”

 

Athos relaxes and laughs, and they watch the TV again. Porthos, having solved the problem of Athos being standoffish tonight, edges his way down the sofa, giggling as he imitates a terrible movie seduction; little ‘subtle’ shifts as if to get comfortable, then when he’s close enough an exaggerated yawn to get his arm over the sofa cushions. Athos gives him an unimpressed look and Porthos laughs and pounces, pulling Athos close, both arms around him, then wriggling until he’s nicely snugged against Athos, head on Athos’s shoulder, warm and content and close. 

 

“You are the most ridiculous human I’ve ever met,” Athos says, sounding bewildered and awed as if this is all new and strange. Maybe it is, to him. Porthos still isn’t sure just how much dating or romantic experience Athos has, Athos is very good at edging around that. 

 

“Shh I’m watching TV,” Porthos says, wriggling again. 

 

“Your glasses fell off somewhere halfway through your bouncing down the couch,” Athos says, leaning into Porthos and over him, feeling around and coming up with the glasses. He blushes again when Porthos puts them on. “God, you are terribly aesthetically pleasing like this you know. All soft hair and pyjamas and glasses. And socks.”

 

“Socks?” Porthos asks, laughing again, losing track of the TV before he even focussed on it again. 

 

“Yeah, I like a guy in socks. It’s a nice sort of… vulnerable soft look,” Athos says, staring fixedly at the screen, flushing crimson. It’s even over his chest. Porthos reaches out to tug his shirt out the way to get a better look, then stops. 

 

“May I?” he asks, tugging gently to demonstrate what he wants. 

 

“Um, I guess,” Athos says, stiffening a little. 

 

“I wanna see,” Porthos says, undoing the buttons. It must tickle, it makes Athos twitch and giggle. His chest is flushed too, but not over his ribs or stomach. Porthos nods sagely. “Never hear of a rib that blushed, I guess.”

 

“Is that what you were after?” Athos says, outraged. “Porthos!”

 

The flush darkens again and does end up over his ribs, just. Porthos beams. 

 

“You’re the best blusher in the world,” he says, kissing Athos’s ribs. 

 

“And you are an awful irregular,” Athos grumbles. “Can we watch TV, now? Are you quite finished?”

 

“I am. You’re beautiful,” Porthos says, sitting back up and wrapping his arms around Athos, focussing on the TV. He only gets a few minutes watched before he realises Athos is watching  _ him _ still, not the TV. “What?”

 

“Nothing. Just, you say it so easily, and don’t care a bit that it’s not a sex thing, or that I’m more interested in TV that you kissing me in seductive ways,” Athos says. 

 

“Sedu- Ath, I was being fond and silly, not seductive. I’m not trying to turn you on when I touch you, you said that wasn’t what you wanted and I believe you,” Porthos says. “Who the fuck have you dated that put these things in your head? And can I hunt them down and subject them to a couple of Sasha’s tantrums? Or, or! Better idea! We can just take a bunch of nappies and set them on fire on their doorstep.”

 

“Ok,” Athos says. “If you let me hunt down Sasha’s donor and I could probably nail him to a telephone pole, I bet you can get really long nails, and maybe put one through his bollocks too.”

 

“Excessive and violent. I like it,” Porthos says. “I’m glad he’s not around, though. He wouldn’t have been good for Sasha. And he wasn’t good for me.”

 

“Then we will leave him to the wilds and hope a tiger eats him,” Athos says. “I like the idea of burning nappies, but I’m afraid there is no culprit of this particular crime.”

 

Porthos doesn’t believe that but he lets it be and they watch DS9 again, resting quietly together, for the rest of the evening. Athos seems nervous about sleeping together so Porthos takes the spare room as if he expected and wanted that. He might miss sleeping with a partner, miss it so much he physically aches for that intimacy, but he wants to go as slow as Athos wants. He’s under the covers feeling cold and missing Sasha when Athos creeps in and steal under with him, pressing himself to Porthos’s back and wrapping his arms around Porthos’s chest and stomach. He presses a kiss to the back of Porthos’s neck and whispers for him to sleep. 

  
  



End file.
